David Nicholls - One Day

He thought for some time.

‘Okay, here goes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘A couple of weeks ago at this club, I got off with this guy.’

Her mouth fell open. ‘A guy?’ and she started to laugh. ‘Well I take my hat off to you, Dex, you’re really full of surprises—’

‘No big deal, just a snog, and I was off my face—’

‘That’s what they all say. So tell me — what happened?’

‘Well it was this hardcore gay night, Sexface, at this club called Strap in Vauxhall—’

‘“Sexface at Strap”! Whatever happed to discos called “Roxys” or “Manhattans”?’

‘It’s not a “disco”, it’s a gay club.’

‘And what were you doing in a gay club?’

‘We always go. The music’s better. More hardcore, less of that happy house shit—’

‘You mentalist —’

‘Anyway, I was there with Ingrid and her mates and I was dancing and this guy just came up to me and started kissing me and I suppose I just sort of, you know, kissed him back.’

‘And did you. .?’

‘What?’

‘Like it?’

‘It was alright. Just a kiss. A mouth is just a mouth, isn’t it?’

Emma laughed once, loudly. ‘Dexter, you’ve the soul of a poet. “A mouth is just a mouth”. Oh, that’s nice, that’s lovely. Isn’t that from “As Time Goes By”?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘A mouth is just a mouth. They should put that on your tombstone. What did Ingrid say?’

‘She just laughed. She doesn’t mind, she quite liked it.’ He gave a blasé shrug. ‘Ingrid’s bisexual anyway, so—’

Emma rolled her eyes. ‘Of course she’s bisexual,’ and Dexter smiled as if Ingrid’s bisexuality had been his idea.

‘Hey, it’s not a big deal, is it? We’re meant to be experimenting with sexuality at our age.’

‘We are? No-one tells me anything.’

‘You must get up to stuff.’

‘I left the lights on once, but I wouldn’t do it again.’

‘Well you better get on with it, Em. Shed those inhibitions.’

‘Oh Dex, you’re such a sexpert . What was he wearing then, your friend at The Strap?’

‘Not The Strap, just Strap. A harness and leather chaps. A British Telecom engineer called Stewart.’

‘And do you think you’ll be seeing Stewart again?’

‘Only if my phone breaks down. He wasn’t my type.’

‘Seems to me like everyone’s your type.’

‘It was just a colourful episode, that’s all. What’s funny?’

‘Just you look soooo pleased with yourself.’

‘No, I don’t! Homophobe.’ He started to peer over her shoulder.

‘Hey are you making a pass at the waiter?’

‘I’m trying to get us another drink. Your turn now. Your secret.’

‘Oh I give in. I can’t compete with that kind of thing.’

‘No girl/girl?’

She shook her head, resigned. ‘You know one day you’re going to say something like that to a real-life lesbian and they’re going to break your jaw.’

‘So you’ve never been attracted to a—?’

‘Don’t be pathetic, Dexter. Now do you want to hear my secret or what?’

The waiter arrived with complimentary Greek brandies, the kind of drink that can only be given away. Emma took a sip and winced then carefully rested her cheek on her hand in a way that she knew suggested a tipsy intimacy. ‘A secret. Let me see.’ She tapped her chin with her finger. She could tell him that she had watched him in the shower, or that she knew all about Tilly Killick at Christmas, the foot massage that had spun horribly out of control. She could even tell him that in 1983 she had kissed Polly Dawson in her bedroom, but knew that she would never hear the end of it. Besides, she had known all evening what she intended to say. As the zither played ‘Like a Prayer’, she licked her lips and made her eyes sultry along with other tiny readjustments, until she had constructed what she believed to be her best, most attractive face, the one she used in photographs.

‘When we first met, at University, before we became, you know, pals , well, I had a bit of a crush on you. Not a bit of a crush, a massive crush actually. For ages. Wrote dopey poems and everything.’

‘Poems? Really?’

‘I’m not proud of myself.’

‘I see. I see.’ He folded his arms, put them on the edge of the table and looked down. ‘Well I’m sorry, Em, but that doesn’t count.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you said it had to be something that I didn’t know.’ He was grinning, and she was reminded once more of his almost limitless capacity to disappoint.

‘God, you’re annoying!’ She slapped the reddest part of his sunburn with the back of her hand.

‘Ow!’

‘How did you know?’

‘Tilly told me.’

‘Nice one, Tilly.’

‘So what happened?’

She looked into the bottom of her glass. ‘I suppose it was something you get over in time. Like shingles.’

‘No, really, what happened.’

‘I got to know you. You cured me of you.’

‘Well I want to read these poems. What rhymes with “Dexter”?’

‘“Bastard”. It’s a half-rhyme.’

‘Seriously, what happened to them?’

‘They’ve been destroyed. I built a bonfire, years ago.’ Feeling foolish and let down, she drank once more from the empty glass. ‘Too much brandy. We should go.’ She began to look distractedly for the waiter, and Dexter began to feel foolish too. So many things he might have said, so why be smug, glib, un generous? Keen to find a way to make amends, he nudged her hand. ‘So shall we go for a walk?’

She hesitated. ‘Okay. Let’s go for a walk.’

They headed out along the bay past the half-built houses of the town as it spread itself along the coast, a new tourist development that they deplored in a conventional way, and while they talked Emma silently resolved to be more sensible in future. Recklessness, spontaneity didn’t really suit her, she couldn’t carry it off, the results were never what she hoped for. Her confession to Dexter had felt like swinging wildly at a ball, watching it sail high into the air then moments later hearing the sound of breaking glass. For the remainder of their time together she resolved to stay level-headed, sober and remember The Rules. Remember Ingrid, beautiful uninhibited bisexual Ingrid, waiting for him back in London. No more inappropriate revelations. In the meantime she would just have to drag the stupid conversation round with her, like toilet paper on the heel of her shoe.

They had left the town behind now, and Dexter took her hand to support her as they stumbled woozily over the dry dunes, still warm from the day’s sun. They walked towards the sea to where the sand was wet and firm and Emma noticed that he was still holding her hand.

‘Where are we going anyway?’ she asked, noting the slur in her voice.

‘I’m going for a swim. You coming?’

‘You’re insane.’

‘Come on!’

‘I’ll drown.’

‘You won’t. Look, it’s beautiful.’ The sea was very calm and clear like some wonderful aquarium, jade with a phosphorescent gleam; if you scooped it up it would glow in your hands. Dexter was already pulling his shirt off over his head. ‘Come on. It’ll sober us up.’

‘But I haven’t got my swimming cost—’ A realisation dawned. ‘Oh, I get it,’ she laughed. ‘I see what’s going on here—’

‘What?’

‘I’ve walked right into it haven’t I?’

‘What?’

‘The old skinny-dip routine. Get a girl drunk and look for the nearest large body of water—’

‘Emma, you are such a prude. Why are you such a prude?’

‘You go on, I’ll wait here.’

‘Fine, but you’ll regret it.’ His back was to her now, taking down his trousers then his underwear.